


The Oral History of Cobblestone

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rutting, Shameless Smut, Smut, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A sound like you could dive into, swim around in, slurp up and swallow down. Great vats of caramel churning slowly, covering me, coating me when he hums into my ear. I could drown in his voice. I already am."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oral History of Cobblestone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuietReader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietReader/gifts).



> aka Hurricane Skully.

That voice.

It spreads like butter, like Nutella, wraps me up like a chocolate blanket. Catches like loops of thread on key rings, low and scratchy. Deep. Wide. A sound like you could dive into, swim around in, slurp up and swallow down. Great vats of caramel churning slowly, covering me, coating me when he hums into my ear. I could drown in his voice.

I already am.

He’s in the kitchen making chamomile. I hate chamomile. I tell him and he chuckles low and soft.

“I’m not making it for you.”

How can I love this about him?

He’s only just come in from smoking and his voice sounds even deeper, woolen. I hate the smell of tobacco and smoke but on him I breathe it in, inhale it. He’s a bonfire when the weather has just gone cold in November and the rain patters down through the nearby trees. Logs crackling and flames dancing. He’s a fire.

I’m staring while he makes it, the tea. I know I’m staring. It doesn’t matter. I know and he knows and he’s smiling. He uses loose leaf tea, he makes it by the pot and all but one cup gets poured down the sink.

It’s fruitless to argue.

He starts to hum and it’s very quiet, tuneless, but my body registers tones that are unmistakably _him_. They mainline into my body, straight to my groin. I lose my breath, close my eyes, steady myself on the back of a chair. He chuckles, just enough, and stops humming. Pours tea. Adds sugar, sips.

Knows what he’s doing.

He turns.

“Tea?”

I’m attempting to be annoyed, stern, but affection crashes over me. I only smirk.

“Come closer.”

He steps nearer to me, arms length.

“Talk to me.”

“What shall I say?” It drawls out of him, molasses and cream. He absolutely knows what he's doing and I’m on my knees. Bury my face in his warm, flat stomach, nuzzle my nose into his crotch.

“You can recite the phonebook for all I care. Anything. Just keep talking.”

I breathe him in deep and his cool expression falters. He’s gasping while I run my hands up the backs of his long, twiggy legs and I’m leaking in my jeans. Every part of him makes me a puddle, has me biting my thumb when I see him. Choking back moans.

My fingers are digging into his perfect arse. He doesn’t choke it back but moans when I raise his shirt and put my lips on his hip bone. Soft, open wet. His skin is so pale it’s almost luminous, transparent. I map blue veins with my tongue. Hands in my hair, sliding through the strands against my scalp and I peek up at him through eyelashes. His mouth is open, his head tilted back: he’s going to drop the tea.

I see it, his fingers loosely wound at the handle. Careless. I bite the skin stretched over his pubic bone and his hand falls and so does the tea. I already have hold of the bottom of the mug. He pants my name. I smile against him, let the cup on the floor as I gently pull downward on the drawstring of his cotton bottoms. Kiss him as I go and he hums but it's not enough, not nearly enough.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

I run my nose through coarse, springy curls, breathe deep and my mouth is watering. I want to taste but he still isn’t talking — only panting. I dip my tongue into the crease between his thigh and his groin and dig short nails into the backs of his thighs.

“ _Talk_.”

“What—” his pyjama bottoms fall to the floor and he’s bottomless and breathless. “What about?” He looks down, hazy.

“Anything. What have you logged away in your head recently.”

“Uhmm. I was reading — oh.” I bite his thigh and he whines.

“Go on.”

“I was reading about the, um, the history of pavement. Today. For the West End case.”

“I’ll take it. Tell me. And don’t stop.”

He's immediately a machine again, I can see it happen in his face, the change from feeling to thinking, like gears turning over. Like rail tracks switching, _click_.

“Well, to start, early streets were often paved with cobblestone, _cobble_ being the diminutive of the english archaic  _cob,_ meaning—ah!”

I ghost my lips over the underside of his hard shaft, mouth closed, feeling the skin. Heat, soft and warm, like the voice I’m hearing now. He clears his throat and tries to maintain.

“Uh, erm, meaning, uh, meaning rounded lump. They were gathered, oh, gathered from, _oh my god_.”

My tongue applied to his frenulum and his brain trying to switch, _think, feel, think, feel_. I aim to short circuit him.

“Keep talking, Sherlock.”

“Alright, sorry, I, uh, the, uh, stones, they were gathered from stream beds.”

He continues on but I don't comprehend the words, only the low and silky tones from his decadent throat. I wrap my mouth around just the head of his cock and suck lightly, hold it there. Feel the vibrations from his chest to his groin and into my mouth. He falters again. My hand snakes underneath his shirt. Pinches his nipple. He whines but continues, something about differentiating cobbles from setts and he is distinctly panting. Gasping between breaths, and I slowly, gently — spreading like butter — like Nutella, slide down his prick. Feel my saliva coating him as I pull back and then slip forward again. He hits my uvula, my tonsils. I choke down my gag reflex because I can’t miss this, here, now. Sherlock, buried in my throat, reciting nonsense about street pavings, circling his hips, whining as I reach up a second hand to torture the other nipple. They’re going to be red and sore and soon and he loves it. So do I.

His hips start to move him in and out of my mouth gently, tentatively. He’s stopped talking. I pinch both nipples hard and pull down.

He yelps about sand versus mortar settings and his hips move faster. The sound of his voice makes me so hard I’m light headed. My heart pounds, jackhammers. I shift to feel friction against my taut zipper. I’m humming around him and he’s moaning. Drool is sliding from my chin to my neck. His knees are going to give. I can feel them trembling and the recitation has petered out.

Pulling off, I stand and wend my arms around his abdomen, holding him up, bending him back, arching him. Applying tongue to angry nipples, stretched and red. He’s calling my name, desperate. I look up at him.

“ _Keep_. _Talking_.”

“John, I—I can’t. I can’t think.”

There it is.

“I know.” I smile and bite him. He shouts.

“Do you want to come in my mouth or in my hands, Sherlock?”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Not on the menu.” I don’t fuck Sherlock unless I can make it last.

I nibble at irritated skin and he whimpers.

“John, please. It, ahh—”

“You like it.”

“ _John_.” That voice. His voice, it shoots through me, splits me down the middle.

“Then answer me.”

His eyes try to focus, stare up at the ceiling, hazy and he mumbles something. I pull away and stand him up. Look in his eyes.

“Go ahead.”

He seems embarrassed, almost ashamed. He looks down, speaks low.

“I said … stomach. On your stomach.” I shiver. That voice. Like butter. 

Smiling, I take his hand and pull him through to the bedroom. Make short work of my clothing and it feels like a bloody miracle when my cock is freed. I turn to him and he looks down at my erection, licking his lips. I chuckle. Walk over, slip the t-shirt over his head.

“Later.”

I take his head in hand and brush our lips together. Kissing Sherlock is like nothing else, there’s no comparison. Surrounded in warmth, like a hot bath, but also like arriving home. But also like going somewhere new. Warm, familiar. Comforting but unexpected. Nothing like it. Every time.

He follows me to the bed and I don’t bother unmaking it. Just lie down in the middle of the pricey, silken comforter and Sherlock climbs on top, unapologetic now. His enthusiasm is endearing.

He looks down at me, slyly, and I can’t breathe. The sight of him. His chest is red and marked around his nipples from where I pinched and gnawed. His lips are wet with my saliva. He’s miles of sand in the desert. Heartbreaking. Never ending. Dangerous. Beautiful. Mine.

He spits in his hand and rubs wetly over the flat of my lower stomach and his prick. He closes his eyes and hums then, pulling at himself, leaking on to my stomach. I’m tight, everything is tight, as he leans back and his arse brushes against my cock. I can’t help it. I reach behind him, start wanking myself hard and fast. He takes the cue and ruts against my stomach, dropping forward, arms on either side of my shoulders. It’s wet and lascivious. Squelching sounds fill the room, along with Sherlock’s loud moans and grunts, picking up speed. Repeating my name without rhythm.

And then he starts talking again. This is the place I’m always coming to. The place where we push past Sherlock’s massive brain, past his hang-ups, his surprising shyness. This is the place where Sherlock’s basest self takes over. He’s filthy. He’s brilliant. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Isn’t even trying.

“That’s it, John, yes. Wet your hand, pump yourself faster. Come across my arse while I’m riding you, rutting you like an animal.”

_That voice_. It’s impossible, he’s growling at me, biting along my chest and collar bones, and I can’t not listen.

“Now.”

That’s all it takes. I come hard, shout. Hearing the soft, wet, sound of it hitting along Sherlock’s lower back and arse heightens everything, intensifies, and my head is pounding. He groans and ruts my stomach faster, faster, until he’s coming too. He strokes along my abdomen throughout, dragging through his semen, spreading it. My stomach is coated.

My heart is still thundering and Sherlock’s head is bowed onto my chest. He’s trying hard, very hard, to keep himself elevated from the mess. I touch his shaking arms.

“Hey, it’s fine.”

He collapses. It’s a sticky mess that neither of us care about.

“Cobblestones? Really, John?” He huffs indignantly when he has his breath back and I’m smiling.

How can I love this about him?

We fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes all the cobblestone information comes from the wikipedia page. Apologies to any pavement historians if there are any historical inaccuracies. 
> 
> teapotsubtext.tumblr.com


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